


silver tongues and golden words

by framboise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Historical, Arranged Marriage, Avarice, Co-Conspirators, Codes & Ciphers, Cunnilingus, Elizabethan, F/M, Muteness, Older Man/Younger Woman, Power Dynamics, Revenge, Sugar Daddy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-28 11:44:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12605868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framboise/pseuds/framboise
Summary: The marriage rights of the mute heiress Lady Sansa Stark are to be sold by the crown to whichever man has pockets deep enough to purchase her.Lord Petyr Baelish does not intend to make a bid, even if she does look very much like his long-lost love, but when he finds a mislaid note written in her hand on the floor of a masquerade ball, the contents have him spending half his fortune to marry her.





	silver tongues and golden words

**Author's Note:**

> Sansa is twenty at the start of this fic, and this version of her character is darker than in canon and by this age conveniently much better at mathematics too...
> 
> Some information about Elizabethan marriage rights, and heirs/heiresses can be found [here](http://www.elizabethan.org/compendium/41.html). Also I've handwaved the codes/code-breaking in this fic so apologies if anyone is a keen cryptographer.
> 
> also if you want visuals for this fic, I made a graphic [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/167368888237/the-marriage-rights-of-the-mute-heiress-sansa)

 

 

It is the talk of King's Landing - the pretty Stark heiress, the mute ward of the crown, is to be sold by the Lannisters to the highest bidder. In return for their monies, the purchaser will receive the paltry dowry of the ruined Stark estate and the harsh northern wastelands of the county of Winterfell, and the prestige of marrying into one of the oldest noble houses. That she is mute, people laugh, only adds to the charm, for what man would not want a wife who does not talk back?

Lady Sansa Stark has not spoken since her father died seven years before, and Lord Petyr Baelish knows that it is a permanent condition, for the Lannisters will have tried every cruelty to attempt to make her speak.

The lady in question is attending a masquerade ball tonight, her first outing in years, and with so many people eager to get a glimpse of her there will be a larger crowd than usual. They say that she is prettier than the queen mother herself, prettier than Lady Margaery Tyrell which is a bold claim indeed. Petyr saw enough glimpses of Sansa at court when she was younger to know that she must now look very much like her mother, the only woman to touch his heart. Petyr is a minor lord, unmarried, a newly minted member of the Privy Council, and just the kind of upstart man one might imagine would make a bid for Sansa, but the staggering cost of her marriage rights is too much for him to part with, no matter her beauty.

Masquerade balls are popular locations for assignations, for plotting and debauchery, and that is the true reason he attends this ball tonight – to see who favours who, which wife or husband strays, what blackmails he might make and which plots are afoot. When people imbibe deeply of wine at masquerade balls they start to think that their costumes hide their true identities, that everyone is as drunken hazed as them, yet he holds no such illusions and has chosen a green feathered masque to match the heraldry he had ordered drawn up when he inherited his paltry corner of the country.

It is half an hour into the ball when he catches a glimpse of hair the colour of flame, Tully hair, and finds himself walking closer. Sansa is listening politely to Duke Tyrell and his sister Lady Margaery. The women's masques are held to the side of their faces so they may show off their beauty to any admirers, their gowns cinching their waists in tightly, their cheeks and lips brushed with rouge.

Sansa does indeed look like Catelyn, a prettier version of her in truth, but Petyr cannot transfer his affections so easily from mother to daughter, hearts do not work like that, though other parts might, as he sees often in the brothels he owns, where men demand women who look exactly like other particular women known to them. If Sansa did not cost so much Petyr might very well buy her, she is a comely thing, and to marry the last Stark would be a pleasing snub to a family that had caused him only pain. The Stark men would roll over in their graves if he married her, if he bedded her, and the thought brings a wicked smile to his face. He wonders idly who it will be who does win her hand, and how soon that fine figure of hers will be ruined by so many whelps.

His eyes catch on her as the ball continues, drawn to her slender form, her grace, that hair; and he finds himself drifting towards the room where a tedious game of riddles is being played with Sansa in its crowd. He watches her as she sits near the back and mouths the answers to every riddle minutes before anyone else can think of an answer. She is not a half-wit then, like 'tis rumoured, she is clever.

The game finishes and the crowd trails out. Sansa is the last to leave, stooping to pick up her dropped fan from the floor. He watches her walk away and then a flash of white in the empty room draws his gaze, paper underneath the seat where she had sat, mislaid perhaps when she had picked up her fan. He strides across and retrieves the paper, by its feel a handful of sheets folded tightly together, and slides it inside his pocket to read later. Another man might have given the lost item back to the lady in question, used its return as the beginnings of an introduction, but Petyr is not such a man. He desires knowledge more than he desires to woo a pretty face.

He leaves the ball later, having gathered enough information to set several plots in motion, and takes his carriage home. As his seat sways on the uneven ground he thinks of the note in his pocket and wonders what he might find inside - a profession of love from a suitor, a prayer, a shopping list, a simpering poem? It is only when he is inside his chambers and the lights have been lit that he unfolds the papers to read.

What he finds there has his heart skipping in his chest, has him running immediately to retrieve his private ledgers to calculate just how much he might be able to spend on the marriage rights of fair Lady Stark. It is imperative that he marry the author of this note, that she be his.

 

*

 

Having purchased her marriage rights, fending off half the eligible men of King's Landing, and spending a fair half of his fortune to do so, Petyr pays her keep for the last month of her twentieth year and when she turns of age he marries her.

The ceremony is tiresome, and he passes the time by staring at his new bride. She is the prettiest bride in all of King's Landing for many years he would wager, in the silver-blue dress he paid for, with her hair curling like flames down her neck. She wears a placid expression, despite the crowd watching her every movement, and her hand is limp in his grasp when he places his ring on her finger. She signs the marriage contract with a neat, and familiar hand, and after a most tedious wedding feast at which he must play the genial host, they travel by coach back to his house and her new home.

He leads her into the parlour next to his study, waits for the servants to set out wine and sweets, and then locks the door once they have left.

She sits and observes him as he walks over to her. She does not appear to be frightened, though he has spoken but a few words to her since he bought her marriage rights.

"I hope you shall be happy here, Sansa," he says, "and if there is aught you wish to improve in the house I shall gladly give you use of my coffers." He sets down a stack of paper, an ink pot, and a quill on the table before her. "You communicate by paper now, do you not?"

She nods and touches a brief hand to the stack in front of her.

"I imagine that it will take some time for the both of us to get used to our marriage. I have spent many years alone without female company, and you have spent many years under the cruel hands of the royal family."

Her head lifts sharply and she looks at him.

"I know the Lannisters well, and I know that they must have hurt you. I want you to know that you will be safe from their reach here-"

She tilts her head.

"-for a manner of safe," he corrects, pleased by her cynicism, "Joffrey is still the king, after all, and his mother the queen," for now, he adds in his head. "I knew your own mother well," he says, and sees a tiny pained twitch at the corner of her eye, "and it pleases me that I might now be able to protect her daughter," though this particular brand of _protection_ would not have made Catelyn happy; she would have tried to claw his eyes out for marrying her pretty young daughter, "and keep you in the comfort you deserve."

He draws nearer to her and reaches into his pocket. "I wondered if I might ask something of you in turn, Sansa."

He places the mislaid note in front of her. She unfolds it, looking startled.

It is a message from the Lannisters written using their particular code. Long gone is the age when easily broken codes were used. Now a combination of coded alphabets are used for each message, making them impossible to break unless you know the particular code word that arranges the rotation of the alphabets.

Yet here, in Sansa's hand, are the workings that prove it can be broken. She has made markings, written numbers, counted letters and underlined words on the original Lannister message and translated it into plain english, but he cannot decipher the exact method from her notes.

"I want you to tell me how you broke this code, sweetling," he says.

She takes up the quill and writes a single sentence on a fresh piece of paper. He turns the paper round. _I shall require payment_ , she has written.

"Payment?" he asks, unable to hide his pleased smile. Both of them know that as her husband he could demand she do this for him, he could demand anything from her. It is bold indeed for her to demand he pay her.

 _Gold, jewels, gowns, fine books, gifts_ , she writes, underlining the last.

"With pleasure, my sweet," he says smiling and reaching out to tug a loose curl of her hair as she watches him guilelessly. He does not unnerve her and he is pleased by that. Fear is not a quality he desires in a wife - prudence perhaps, but cunning more, and beauty, wits, an avaricious nature.

He sends a note for a gem merchant to visit their home and has the long gallery prepared for his arrival, guiding Sansa to a plush velvet seat. She looks listless until the merchant arrives, and then she watches eagerly as he and his apprentice bring out chests and bags and rolls of jewels and gems ferried from the far corners of the world, her eyes lighting up hungrily.

Petyr feels hungry himself watching her, observing her slim fingers pluck gems and jewels from the merchant's collection, holding them up to the light, peering at them closely looking for imperfections and authenticity.

"Which ones do you like, my lady?" Petyr asks and he watches as she points to a diamond, and then a ruby, and then an emerald, and then a large opal. She steps back and looks at Petyr, a small smile on her delicate face.

"The lady chooses well," the merchant says and Petyr glares at him to step away from her and then retrieves a bag of money and begins the tedious business of haggling the man for a (less than) fair price. Sansa listens carefully as he bargains while she strokes the gems she has chosen.

Finally the merchant is gone, his offer of a referral to a jewellers rebuffed since Petyr has his own in mind to set these gems, and the house is once again quiet.

He retrieves the note she had dropped at the ball, the stack of paper, and a quill and ink, and sets them down on the writing desk next to the row of gems, her payment.

"Will you show me how you broke this code now, sweetling?" he asks, pouring two cups of wine.

She nods and smiles up at him and he tries not to let that smile move him.

Then she bends over the paper and begins to write. He strolls around the gallery watching as she finishes both sides of the first sheet and one side of the second. She sits back when she is finished and he picks up the paper to read.

She explains several of her methods including counting the frequency of letters, looking for repeated patterns, and certain tricks to tell how long a code word might be. But there is no one method, no easy way of breaking the code, as he did not expect there to be; and certain parts of the methods she uses, she explains, are intuitive, individual to each case.

"How did you learn this skill?" he asks, setting down the now priceless papers, "Did you have it in you since you were young?"

She shakes her head and writes on a new sheet, _I was not good at mathematics, and I did not like being so unaccomplished so I set my mind to learning more_. _The crown had given me tutors and I begged them to teach me more about numbers and words_ , he pauses at that to glance at her, yes he can imagine the pretty begging she might have employed. _The royal library is large and the queen was happy for me to spend my time there and not under foot._

"Very clever, sweetling," he says, approvingly, admiring the way she had sought to improve herself, "but surely you did not learn all your tricks from books and tutors?"

She shakes her head and he reaches out a hand to brush his finger down the soft skin of her temple.

"No, it is your lovely mind that makes the last leaps, that finishes each problem, is it not?"

She smiles again, looking into his eyes, and he feels his body heat.

He had assumed it was not a simple trick from the markings she had left on the decoded note and this was why he married her and did not simply attempt to blackmail her for her secrets. Petyr is exceptionally good with numbers, creative, and with her help he might one day have the same skills as her, but a younger mind like hers is more malleable, able to make new connections, and he has no time to waste when coded secrets of the crown and the many plots against it race across the country. Before him, in a delightfully pretty package, sits the key to breaking Spymaster Varys' unbreakable code and Petyr feels a dark delight at the very thought of it, of besting that smarmy fool and becoming very rich besides.

 

A marriage is not lawful until it is consummated but since he has no desire to see a face that looks so much like his lost love crying before him on the pillow, since his pride would much rather she eventually came to him, and since a mute girl cannot tell anyone that she has not been had, there is no need for him to lay with her tonight. He tells her this when he enters their bedchambers that first night, finding her sitting in her pretty nightgown at the foot of the bed, looking for the first time nervous.

They get into bed and he reaches over to kiss her on her soft cheek and then blow out the candle. He settles into sleep, feeling satisfied with the prize he has won, and the schemes they shall make, the money they shall earn in years to come.

 

*

 

For every coded message she breaks he buys her something new, and sometimes just because he likes to see her face light up when he places a gift before her - furs, gloves, necklaces, gems, rings, gowns, shoes, exotic birds for the cages hanging in the windows, books, quills, silver ink-pots, veils to frame her pretty face, paintings, fine furniture, lace, embroidered linens, ruffs, sweets and marzipans, tapestries, brooches, underthings - though she looks at him sidelong when he hands her the last, as if she knows that those particular gifts are partly for him as well. He likes to think of her wearing petticoats and corses he has chosen, chemises of the finest lace and stockings of the softest silk against her skin.

Catelyn had owned a favourite doll that she played with as a child, and which she was gifted tiny gowns for, and he thinks of this occasionally when a tailor comes to call and Petyr watches as fittings are made, as his wife is trussed inside her many layers of clothes while the servants watch askance at his presence for such a scene. Let them speak of his lust for his wife, it would hardly be a lie.

Sansa lets him kiss her now, lets him brush his fingers gently along the smooth skin of her neck and shoulders, the soft mounds of her breasts that are pushed up by her gowns. She sits herself down on his lap before his desk or on an armchair without prompting, wriggling about and driving him close to madness. Has she been tutored in the lustful arts, even though he knows that Duke Lannister would have ordered her to remain unmolested and a virgin still? Does she know how she sets his blood aflame? Perchance she does. But equally he knows that she does not bear his touch unwillingly, that he can make her shiver too with the brush of his lips against her neck, the clutch of his hands around her small waist. Might he die before she lets him take her to bed? If so, it shall be a sweet death.

 

*

 

In barely a few months he knows more about the crown's secrets than he had gathered for years, thanks to Sansa's particular skills, and the money flowing into his coffers increases exponentially, he shall make up what he spent on her marriage rights soon enough.

He has always been an opportunistic man whose larger dreams have centred on nebulous goals of power and wealth, influence, but now that he owns this secret weapon he starts to ponder on what he wishes for in the larger scheme of things, what position would suit him, just who he might like as king or queen.

It is Sansa who helps inspire him towards one particular end, that of the death of King Joffrey. He has suited Petyr's plans up to this point, for the boy is easily swayed and easy to predict, distracted with whores and violence, but a boy soon becomes a man and that man may be harder to influence.

Joffrey had beaten his wife with a poker iron from the fire and she bears the scars from it, which Petyr discovers only in the aftermath of their sweet consummation as he lays beside her, running a hand down his sated wife's bare back. He gets up from the bed and fetches paper and ink for her, holds the candle above it as she rests the paper on his leg and explains what the King did. She does not cry but Petyr can read the pain in her eyes and he feels a great upspring of tenderness for her, an emotion he has rarely experienced before.

"I shall kill the king, sweetling, he shall pay for this," he vows.

She writes a few more words and he takes the page. _And the Lannisters?_ she has written.

"Why, they shall pay too, and we shall take their gold from them. I will drape you in it," he says, standing up from the bed and flinging open one of her jewellery chests, gathering necklaces and pearls and gems. He dresses her naked form in jewellery as she smiles and looks at him as if he is a knight, her hero, and his scarred chest cannot help but puff up with pride.

 

*

 

They are in attendance at Joffrey's wedding feast when the boy meets his untimely end. The king coughs and splutters blood on the rush mats of the floor while the birds in their cages twitter prettily and Joffrey's pet monkey gallops about eating food from every plate and shitting on the table in front of the queen mother. Petyr does not care in what manner someone dies, only that they are dead, but he is pleased to offer such a tableau for his wife, who enjoys the finer things in life.

"Tommen will do for now for king," he tells her as they make their way home from the palace to Petyr's new mansion, "while I set my sights on Duke Lannister, and all his gold," he adds with a smirk.

His wife leans over and kisses him on the cheek, pleased by his plan.

It is a hot summer night and when the carriage stops Sansa pulls him by the hand through the mansion and out into the gardens where the servants have lit torches. He has lately had a maze made for her and she leads him through it now, covering his eyes with her soft hands and kissing the back of his neck as he trusts in her to guide him along the winding path. When they reach the centre of the maze he pulls her hands away and seats her upon the stone bench, kneeling before her and ducking up under her heavy skirts to feast upon her, relying on the twitching of her flesh and her hands upon his head to guide him since he cannot hear her cries.

 

*****

 

Sansa's husband is good with his tongue, unlike her - good when he speaks his silken words to others, coaxing them to give him their secrets; good when he puts his tongue to use between her legs.

She thinks that a part of him likes that she cannot speak because she cannot thus interrupt his lengthy self-important speeches, but she has found other ways to make his voice trail off - sucking on marzipans, unpinning her hair, unlacing her gowns.

He likes to listen to her little gasps of pleasure when they are together in all their favourite corners of the house, likes to sip them from her lips and stare at her, searching her eyes for her feelings for him. She knows he wishes she would say his name so she makes sure to write it on the notes she leaves for him around the house or has sent to him when he is at the tailors, or in a tavern, or visiting court. _To my dearest Petyr_ , she writes, and he comes running back to the house as swift as he is able, rips her gown from her and loves her well, then promises to buy her a new gown to replace the last, and jewels to replace the ones she wears even though they are not broken. Her husband is pleasingly avaricious, and generous with only her.

Girls who are lesser than - mute, deaf, dumb, crippled – are supposed to be weak-willed, gentle, thankful for every scrap given to them, saintly, a good example. But she is a descendant of an eight thousand year line of kings and queens and princesses, she is not a meek girl, she does not grovel.

She did want to be good once, to be pious and pure, but her mother and father were good and they were murdered for it, her father killed on the strength of the last words Sansa ever spoke aloud.

She does not aspire to _goodness_ anymore, revenge will suit her fine, and she has the perfect partner to help her.

Her husband wants to know all her secrets and one day she might tell him the best one, the one that will make him the proudest - that she had known exactly who he was before they crossed paths at that ball, and how she might tempt him with her skills, that she left that note for only him to find, that he was the one caught, bought, and not her, the singing mockingbird captured in the net of words that she wove.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> please comment, I'd love to hear what people think!
> 
> my tumblr: [framboise-fics](http://framboise-fics.tumblr.com)
> 
> and there's a rebloggable photoset for this fic [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/167368888237/the-marriage-rights-of-the-mute-heiress-sansa)


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